


like moth to a flame

by qlossxier



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV), The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: (and sex), F/F, Sex basically, Sexual Content, damn why does this fic have so many views, plotless i think, read my previous fic if you want S T O R Y, y'all horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 11:04:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20191246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qlossxier/pseuds/qlossxier
Summary: Serena lays there, helplessly aroused, paving her way to her own destruction as a moth would to a flame.





	like moth to a flame

**Author's Note:**

> hola chicas, here is my second serena based short!! please enjoy!!!  
-  
i'm not editing this one any soon like my swan song one because i literally cannot reread it without evaporating of cringe haha
> 
> p.s. if you know who i am in real life please do not read this i will die i can't even reread it myself please just read my other one and go away please 😭😭😭

It doesn’t surprise you anymore when she sneaks up behind you, smugly tucking her hands under your loose t-shirt. The sensation never fails to drive goosebumps down your entire body, and you squirm a little in the strange mix of feeling both nonchalant uninterest and desire. 

Her hand accompanied with the early morning sunlight peeking through the window of your 12th-floor apartment intensifies the warmth that begun to brew in your core.

“June,”

You feel your somewhat demanding voice vibrate around your chest where June’s hands were roaming freely. You can’t see her, but you hear her giggle softly, tucking her fingers deeper in until she was able to touch the edge of your bra. You’re barely able to hold down the smile that was creeping alongside the corner of your lips, but manage to keep your eyes on your newspaper.

June leans forward, pressing in behind the couch, her blonde hair dangling next to your ears. She’s petite, both height and body-wise, and you tower over her, even while sitting. It takes all your might not to look sideways to your charming paramour.

“What are you reading?”

Her voice is breathy and hoarse, but to you it sounds like a sweet tune— So sweet that it sends an ache down to your lower abdomen that can’t lie about the blasphemous sounds it heard that commenced from her mouth within the bedroom amidst preceding nights. It’s near impossible to get such impious thoughts banished from your imagination.

“Papers,” you respond, turning the page as if you were still remotely aware of the content written onto the thin sheets. 

“Hmm,”

She hums, and recedes her hands from your shirt, although not quickly enough. You grab onto her wrist and pull her palms back in to exactly where they were before. You still refuse to look at her, but it’s no mystery that a smug grin is plastered all over her face. 

“You’re being a tease now, aren’t you, Mrs. Waterford?” she giggles, now strenuously tucking her hands inside your undergarments.

“Don’t call me that,”

You say, attempting to sound half-serious, but miserably failing as you precariously fall at the sensation of her gliding against your skin. Now your eyes are off of the papers, looking straight ahead, your breathing growing noticeably heavier.

“We should have breakfast.”

Your last attempt at regaining rationality and a chaste morning. Not even close to an effective solution, and you know it, for your unholy yearning has already overpowered your sanctimonious ego.

How many times has she annihilated you like this? Your thin, feeble silver cross necklace did not mean anything anymore, for she grabbed on to it for dear life when your fingers made her reach the peaks of heaven itself. Nor your wedding ring, tucked away in the corner of a drawer next to your bed somewhere loud, godless inotations echoed night after night. 

You haven’t touched your Bible in months, maybe even a year. Hell, how long has it been since you’ve admittedly prayed? 

Ironically, it could’ve been Gilead that shred you away from your devotion to the Divine Being. A far, or maybe even nonexistent memory for some, perhaps, but you like to think that being with June is your way of coping. 

Although, ‘coping’ is not exactly a way to describe you and June’s liaison.

“Breakfast,”

June repeats, tilting her head sideways.

“I’ve got an idea.”

“Oh,”

You respond, and for the first time, shift your head towards her, bridging your eyes with hers.

“And what is that?”

It was evident that June preferred many other things than verbal communication. Her hands earnestly slide out from your chest and cup around your jaw, pushing it sideways as her lips softly pushed against your clavicle. She knew you too well.

You hate yourself for the blood that immediately rushes in between your legs, as well as your involuntary, light, breathy moan. You grab on to the hem of June’s t-shirt and pull it upwards but you’re interrupted by her pulling it back down.

You gaze at her, lustfully yet perplexed, but she only smiles. 

“Let me.”

There is no part of Serena Joy Waterford that’s left in you when June Osborne wants you to comply, especially when it's in regards to whether your t-shirt stays on or off.  
You possessed nothing of what you were before, not in front of her. And only because of that, you obey, letting her pull your shirt up instead of you pulling hers, admitting to your compulsory loss. 

You let her push you onto the couch where she sat on top, her messy bed hair remaining as she pins you down, kissing you softly, pressing on your sensitive core with one hand and cupping your chin with the other.

You lay there, helplessly aroused, paving your way to your own destruction as a moth would to a flame. June was, genuinely, a blaze that could not be smothered. A message that could not be ignored. A law that could not be defied. She was much sturdier than Serena Joy, a straw house, a false prophet of what she thought was a brick home.

You can't decide whether it’s fury or carnality that girdles you when she grinds herself against your thighs, simultaneously moving her fingers up and down inside you. The pleasure distracts you, and that’s quite precisely what you demand for. 

“Oh, God.”

Their act never consisted very much of talking, but simply with expressions of sensuous inclination. You pant, she goes faster. You moan, she moans. You come, she comes. The few words that did get exchanged were either June’s spontaneous whispers of your name or her humming softly that she’d make you come till you saw stars. 

And you do, indeed, see stars. Stars that, if you are paying close attention, turn into balls of fire, sparking into explosive waves of pleasure, burning the moths of whatever manifold thoughts that layered the remnants of your consciousness.

June collapses, her head burying in between your shoulders as she pulls herself out from your wetness with one hand, her hot breath thickening the atmosphere. 

She grabs onto your neck, planting a trail of kisses down your chest, where you quietly acknowledge that in between you and her act, the final, fragile string of what had been a necklace of your savior’s gallow had ceased to exist.

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii guys hope you enjoyed :)))))))))) i wanted to make this as fluffy as possible but ahhahaha here we are!!!!! also i literally cannot reread this because it makes me cringe every 2 seconds!!! thank you!!!!! goodbye!!!!
> 
> Edit: check out my previous fanfic swan song!!! I personally treasure swan song more than I do this fanfic (hehe) and it’s also newly edited :))))


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